"It must be 30 degrees in here."
Samantha either didn't hear or didn't acknowledge Danny, but that didn't stop him from trying to cut through the thick tension in the car. "I bet there are agents in Florida conducting stakeouts in shorts."
"Probably." Her voice was distant before continuing. "It's 11:35. The kidnapper said 11:30. Child abductors are almost never late. They released statistics last year; 70% of arrests in these cases occur when the suspect shows up early."
Danny drummed his fingers on the console. "Maybe our guy read the statistics."
Shifting in her seat, Samantha looked across the street to the blue sedan parked along the curb. She wondered what Jack and Marie were talking about. If they were talking at all.
"How is Jack taking this?"
"Hard. I think he skipped denial and went straight to the anger stage. I can't imagine..."
Danny looked at her. "Anger? At his wife?"
Opting for discretion, she shrugged. "At the situation."
"You interviewed Marie. Was she helpful at all?"
"No real description. She didn't see anything. Typical snatch-and-flee. No one catches a glimpse of anything useful, but there's plenty of blame to go around."
"I bet that was awkward for you."
Samantha snapped her head around. "What's that supposed to mean?"
He leaned against the door, raising both hands in defense. "Having to interview the bosses' wife about their kid has to be a tricky situation."
That was better than the 'Well, you did break up their marriage' answer. "Yeah, it was a difficult spot to be in."
Nodding, Danny stared back ahead, the lights from the dash casting him in an eerie glow. "11:40."
Dammit. Making a snap decision, she spoke into the small radio tucked into the lapel of her jacket. "Jack, go ahead and do the drop. He could be waiting in any one of these buildings."
No response came, but she saw the door open and his familiar form walk toward a round trash bin near the crosswalk. Ten steps, then twenty steps...He was nearing thirty when a car slammed their vehicle from behind.
Samantha's head hit the steering wheel and she wondered if the bright light was from the impact or the headlights behind them. "Shit! This was a setup."
Tires squealed as the car that had hit them spun into reverse. Reacting quickly, Samantha shouted over the din. "Try to get a tag. I'm going to the drop area."
She was only slightly cognizant of the retreating tail lights as she caught sight of Jack 100 yards ahead of her, gun drawn. He clutched a sheet of paper in his left hand as he jogged to meet her, slowing as he approached. "Jesus, Sam. Are you okay?"
Feeling a bit lightheaded, she raised her fingers to her forehead almost distractedly. "Maybe not. What does the note say?" Pulling her fingers back in front of her eyes, she saw blood.
Danny ran up behind them. "I couldn't get a tag number. Black, older model, four door. It was too dark to get anything else."
If Samantha could describe Jack's look, it would be authoritative helplessness. He tossed his keys and the note to the younger male agent. "Danny, take Marie back to the house. Wait by the phone. If you get so much as a wrong number, page me. Don't leave her side. Actually, see if you can get a couple of uniforms by the door. And get Martin to run that note down to the lab; I want it checked for everything."
He looked at Samantha. "You come with me."
Marie glanced at the rearview mirror as Danny pulled the car away from the museum. Framed perfectly were her husband and Agent Spade, standing far too close together for her comfort. She watched him reach out a hand and brush hair away from the other woman's face. It was too gentle, too familiar.
"They're very close," Danny said, catching the change in expression on her face.
"I noticed."
Jack's hand dropped from Samantha's hair back to his side. "This looks pretty bad," he said, gesturing to the cut on her forehead. "We should go to the hospital."
"It's fine. It's drying up." The worry on his features was making her nervous. Granted, she had had blood dripping into her eye, but it had stopped two minutes ago. "Will you stop staring at me like I'm about to bleed out?"
"Sorry." Under the orange glow of a street light, the blood looked darker, more prominent than it probably was. "I would feel better if we got a bandage on it."
"No stitches."
"I promise."
Danny started to say that what he had said earlier about Jack and Samantha wasn't meant the way it came out, but closed his mouth when he realized it would sound like he was covering for something. And it wasn't fair to cover something if he wasn't sure there was anything to cover up.
"I'm sorry about your daughter, Mrs. Malone," he said finally.
Turning away from the window, she said, "Don't be. You didn't lose her."
The car was silent for the rest of the journey back to the house.
The two agents had been in the car for ten minutes, neither speaking, as he guided the vehicle towards the nearest Walgreens. She'd insisted she didn't need to go to a hospital, that she'd be 'fine, we can stop at a pharmacy and get bandages'.
"Turn left at 5th street?"
Samantha nodded, then waited a few moments before speaking, walking the balance between her need for information about the case and her own concern for Jack. "What does the note say?"
He stared straight ahead, shifting lanes. "That he'll be calling tomorrow with more instructions. That if there's surveillance again, there won't be another chance." Swallowing, he turned the wheel and they headed east. She could tell he was struggling with how much to tell her.
"What else?"
"'Shelby says hi.'"
Her confusion was evident, so he continued. "In '97 I investigated the case of a missing seven year old from Scarsdale. Shelby Brightman. She was taken from her school and never spotted again. No sightings, no evidence. No one even got a description of the vehicle. We searched for three weeks before turning the case back over to the NYPD."
Samantha exhaled loudly. "So you think it's the same person?"
"Shortly after we had dropped the investigation I started getting notes. All typewritten on the same kind of plain stationery. Taunting me. Asking me why I couldn't find her, ridiculing the FBI's inability to chase him down."
Her stomach lurched. "So you think he's come back to make things more personal?"
"It's the only thing I can think."
Closing her eyes, Samantha shook her head. "Maybe they'll be able to get some trace evidence off the letter. Prints, DNA..."
The air in the car felt almost claustrophobic as Jack felt the weight of the situation crashing down around him. "He's too smart for that. He must have sent me close to 20 of those at the time. Not one shred of information came out if it."
She fought her headache even as the pounding increased. "What do we do now?"
"We buy bandages and get you fixed up. And then…" He shrugged. "Then we'll see."
Celine Dion sang softly about love lost as Jack and Sam wandered down a far too bright Walgreens aisle looking for bandages. They'd already waved off the lone clerk, who'd taken one look at her bloody forehead and retreated away from his offer of assistance.
"Here," he said, coming to a stop in front of a five-shelf section devoted to first aid. "Spongebob Squarepants Band-Aids?"
She grimaced as her arched eyebrow caused the skin around her wound to move painfully. "No." Samantha grabbed a box of plain cotton gauze and a roll of medical tape. "I'm going to need Advil and some water."
The two stopped at the cash register, dropping the box, tape, ibuprofen and Aquafina on the counter, along with a small bar of Hershey's chocolate. "For Hanna, when she comes back," he said, his sudden weary optimism erasing her inquisitive glance at the candy.
They exited the store, Jack carrying the plastic bag in one hand as he stuffed the receipt into his wallet with the other. When they reached the Bureau sedan, he placed his wallet back in his pocket and opened her door, handing Sam the bag once she'd gotten settled in, then walked around the car and climbed in.
Jack reached above her head and turned on the overhead, the light barely bright enough to illuminate the car. Brushing her hair aside, he got his first real look at the wound since they had left the drop site. He ran his fingertips lightly over the raised area on her forehead. "Are you sure you don't want me to take you to the hospital? This might need stitches."
She flashed him a weak smile in gratitude, but her voice was firm. "I'm fine. We have bigger priorities right now," she responded, knowing that Jack knew that better than anyone and mentally chastising herself for saying the words.
He ripped open a pack of gauze and pressed a piece gently against the cut. "Here, hold that in place."
Samantha raised her fingers to his and found the edges as he withdrew his hand to open the roll of tape. The dim light accentuating his haggard appearance. "You look exhausted."
Smoothing the tape into place, he took in her pale complexion, lank hair, and the bruise darkening across her forehead. "You don't look that great yourself."
"You've been up longer than I have." She paused to palm the Advil he held out for her. Taking a sip of water, she continued. "Why don't you let me drive. Get some rest. The second anyone calls, I'll wake you."
His body was making the decision for him, but he made one last attempt at a protest. "Are you sure?"
Handing him the bottle of water, she climbed out of the passenger seat. "Positive."
Jack stayed awake long enough for them to switch seats.
Samantha looked at his slumbering form for a long moment as she coasted to a stop at a red light. Now what? She could take him back to his house, his wife, one remaining daughter and all the pain. But what was she supposed to tell Marie? 'Sorry, he fell asleep in the car, so I drove around town for an hour trying to figure out where to put him' didn't have the right ring.
There was always 'We were working late.' But… could that sound more suspicious?
The only thing to do now was take him home with her.
"Jack?" He mumbled something inaudible as Samantha cut the engine. "Wake up."
His eyes still closed, Jack popped the release on his seatbelt and asked, "Where are we?"
"My apartment."
One eye opened lazily, and he yawned. "Why?"
Telling him she wasn't actually sure wasn't an option. "You're exhausted. I'm exhausted. It's not safe for either of us to drive back to your house."
"You drove here," he replied sleepily.
"It's not on the other side of the city, Jack. Come on, let's go up."
Jack surveyed his surroundings as he'd been trained, commenting, "Nice place."
Samantha looked over her shoulder, meeting his eyes. "Nothing's changed since the last time you were here," she said, a wry smile settling itself on her face.
"It's cleaner."
"Only because your clothes aren't scattered all over the floor," she shot back, instantly regretting her decision to make the comment. It was not an appropriate time for teasing, not an appropriate moment for these memories.
His jaw worked like he was about to speak, but he didn't. An awkward moment passed before she said, "Bedroom's this way."
She shifted on the couch. Watched the display on her VCR change from 1:57 to 1:58. Shifted again. She hadn't realized how short it was before.
Replaying the conversation they'd had as he'd slipped between the sheets fully clothed, Samantha wondered if her choice to take the couch was more out of a need to remain distant during the course of the investigation or if they'd entered a new level of uncomfortable post-affair interactions. Either way, she wanted to be in the bed and couldn't be.
She heard the rustle of her sheets as Jack turned, thought again how comfortable the bed was, how her blankets weren't scratchy like this one was...
I can't climb into bed with him, she thought. I can't. We need to keep our distance right now.
Marie's going to find out, she told herself as she rose.
She's going to find out and that will ruin my credibility as the agent in charge. Sam pulled back the blankets and slid in next to him.
Marie is going to find out.
